"There will be no peace for him, no sweetness of nature, no green pastures and still waters, within or without, while he seeks life's adjustments through definitions of mere right and rights. No, boy; you will ever be a restless captive, pacing round and round those limits of your enclosure. Worse still if you seek those definitions only to justify your overriding another's happiness in pursuit of your own." The boy was not in hearing; this was apostrophe. "Bonaventure," he said, as the lad came by again; and Bonaventure stopped. The player pushed the cards from him, pile by pile, leaned back, ran his fingers slowly through his thin gray hair, and smiled. "Bonaventure, I have a riddle for you. It came to me as I was playing here just now. If everybody could do just as he pleased; if he had, as the governor would say, all his rights,--life, liberty, pursuit of happiness,--if everybody had this, I say, why should we still be unhappy?" The boy was silent. "Well, I did not suppose you would know. Would you like me to tell you? It is because happiness pursued is never overtaken. And can you guess why that is? Well, never mind, my son. But--would you like to do something for me?" Bonaventure nodded. The cure rose, taking from his bosom as he left his chair a red silk handkerchief and a pocket-worn note-book. He laid the note-book on the table, and drawing back with a smile said: "Here, sit down in my place, and write what I tell you, while I stretch my legs. So; never mind whether you understand or not. I am saying it for myself: it helps _me_ to understand it better. Now, as I walk, you write. 'Happiness pursued is never overtaken, because'--have you written that?--'because, little as we are, God's image makes us so large that we cannot live within ourselves, nor even for ourselves, and be satisfied.' Have you got that down? Very well--yes--the spelling could be improved, but that is no matter. Now wait a moment; let me walk some more. Now write: 'It is not good for man to be alone, because'--because--let me see; where--ah, yes!--'because rightly self is the'--Ah! no, no, my boy; not a capital S for 'self'--ah! that's the very point,--small _s_,--'because rightly self is the smallest part of us. Even God found it good not to be alone, but to create'--got that?--'to create objects for His love and benevolence.' Yes--'And because in my poor, small way I am made like Him, the whole world becomes a part of me'--small _m_, yes, that is right!" From bending a moment over the writer, the priest straightened up and took a step backward. The boy lifted his glance to where the sunlight and leaf-shadows were playing on his guardian's face. The cure answered with a warm smile, saying: